


Boy Soldier

by reefee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 01:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16844170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reefee/pseuds/reefee
Summary: Ron loved Harry and Hermione, of course he did, but they were still wounds. They were just as prevalent in his bad memories as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was.





	1. one

Ron fell asleep at 8pm, not that he was complaining. He'd been up since 7 when he'd woke in a panic. He couldn't quite remember why he had panicked, just that he had. He'd headed in to work early, beating George there, despite his living above the shop. It was nice walking in Diagon Alley alone. Stray cats mewled at him as he walked by, others were growling and hissing at each other in the tight quarters of the alleys. He worked all the way until 5, which, if he was honest with himself, was rare. George was lenient with his younger brother and often let him leave the shop early, choosing to close shop by himself or with the assistance of Angelina, his girlfriend. But today was different. Today he needed something, anything, to fill his day, really. Ron knew he was desperate if staying at work was his way of finding something to do. 

When he awoke covered in sweat he thought, for a moment, that it was the morning. It was actually 10:30 at night. He groaned and rolled out of bed, his shirt and blankets sticking to him, slick with sweat. It was the same shit every night. It didn't matter how exhausted or frustrated or sad; he could never sleep. The darkness in his apartment felt as though it was taunting him.

For a moment, as Ron sat down on his couch in his "living room" (can it really be called a living room if it's a studio?), he didn't understand his constant feeling of boredom. Did everyone else feel like this? Should he contact the manufacturer and check to see if there was a recall on his model? He went through the files in his mind; what did he do in the past to fill his time? At first his mind snapped to Quidditch behind the Burrow. Fred and George always would play with him, even when Ron could tell they'd much rather be doing something else. He smiled, thinking of red hair blazing in the sun, yellow, dried grass in the background. Just as quickly as the Patronus-worthy thought rose, it fell, along with his smile. He wished, with all of his might, he could smile when he thought of Fred. After all of these years Ron thought the pain would ease, with time he would finally be able to think of his brother without remembering the look of his cold, frozen-in-time, lifeless body. His body might have been smiling, but without the light behind the eyes it wasn't the same. It went from the comforting expression of a beloved brother to the curled lips of a stranger. Ron never realized how important the glint in Fred's eyes were to his entire appearance. He didn't even look like George, as he lay on the floor of the Great Hall. 

His stomach lurched. It felt as though all of his positive memories, all of the memories that made Ron Ron, had been tainted, covered in the slime and despair and hatred and stench of You-Know-Who. No matter where he looked in his mind war and pain and shame existed. Instead of thinking of feasts or Dumbledore or pumpkin juice, he now thought of the bodies lined up where the tables belonged. Instead of remembering the starry, clear nights on the ceiling, all he could see was the clouds, the streaks of green, red, blue, killing and harming and cursing. 

Were the Death Eaters even taking any damage? Was any of this working? The faceless bodies of his comrades falling from brooms quickly became faces he knew. Tonks, Mad-Eye, Remus, Fred..

He shook his head, over and over again, trying to dissolve the memory from the movie screen behind his lids. It wouldn't work, no matter how hard he shook. His pallid, unresponsive face seemed to be getting larger and larger, filling more and more of his mind. He pleaded, with who, he didn't know, for it to stop. 

Sometimes he didn't know if he really did survive the war. 

\--

Saturday's used to be fun, but now, what with the whole out of school thing, they only consisted of work. Surprisingly enough, joke shops tend to do most of their business on the weekends. Ron preferred to stock shelves and take in shipments, but George had specifically asked him to man the counter today and be "acting manager". Ron had rolled his eyes at that, but agreed. He tried not to let George notice his excitement for having a full Saturday planned. Before George left Ron in charge, however, he had said to him, "I almost forgot, Mum's having dinner tonight. I think Harry and Hermione are gonna be there. Luna and Ginny, as well." He stood for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. Ron wondered what he was looking for until George looked at him again, a smile on his face, "Yup, that's it. Alright, mate, don't burn the place to the ground. I opted out on the insurance. Don't tell anyone." He winked and walked out the door.

Ron loved Harry and Hermione, of course he did, but they were still wounds. They were just as prevalent in his bad memories as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was. He shouldn't think this way, he told himself. His self-assurance did nothing to chase the thoughts away. He couldn't picture the comfort he had received from both Harry and Hermione. Instead he thought of the fear.

Ron was interrupted by a mother and young son inquiring about the Muggle magic tricks that Fred and George had only sold for the love of their father. Ron smiled and followed the customers over to display of various packs of cards and strange black sticks with a white tip at the end (he made a mental note to ask his dad what this might be). 

As Saturdays go, it was relatively mild in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. By 3pm the slow trickle of customers became a sprinkle which led to the end of precipitation, so to speak. Ron wandered about the store, laughing occasionally at products that he had previously overlooked. He laughed particularly hard at the line of loyal candies that, if eaten by anyone but the owner, would glue the offenders mouth shut. Ron didn't have to search too hard to discover the inspiration for that particular candy. He'd been on the receiving end of Fred's ravenous stealing of candy one too many times. 

Before he knew it, it slipped in again. The sadness, the cold. He hated to think of what would happen if he ran into a dementor at this point in his life. It felt as though he had one constantly hovering around his shoulder. 

He spent the rest of the day at the joke shop sitting on the floor behind the counter. He knew no one would come in.


	2. two

Ron spent 15 minutes preparing himself to apparate to the Burrow. He paced back and forth in the entry way of his apartment, convincing himself that it wouldn't be too bad, wouldn't be too overwhelming. Save for the joke shop, Ron spent most of his time alone or with small groups of people. He wasn't accustomed to being around his entire family AND Harry AND Hermione AND Luna. His stomach was in his throat. All of the people in attendance at the dinner would be the very people who reminded Ron of the war. Fred's absence would make the room full of people feel empty.

Ron breathed deeply and, before he could think any harder, he turned on the spot. The pull and push and gravitational change of materializing near the Burrow made his queasiness increase. As his feet touched solid ground, his head continued to spin. He bent over, expecting to retch, but instead gulped breath in giant, chest heaving movements. He heard a pop to his left and turned his head. It was Percy, "It's good to see you, brother." Ron faked a quick smile, moving alongside Percy to the front door. 

"Where's Audrey," Ron asked. Not because he actually wanted to know, but because he felt like it was the right thing to do. 

"Working late," Percy smiled, beaming with pride, "She's always working, that woman." For anyone else that would be a bad thing, but for Percy it was a dream come true.

Ron nodded, unsure as to how to continue the conversation. Thankfully he didn't have to worry about the silence he perceived as awkward. Mrs. Weasley was still bustling about the kitchen. Ron could smell the roast in the oven and the starchy scent of boiling potatoes. For the first time in a long time his stomach growled. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be hungry. 

"Ronny!" Mrs. Weasley threw her arms up, haphazardly discarding the potato masher in her hand. She ran to hug her son, kissing him on the cheek. Ron felt the familiar softness of his mothers' arms and for a moment let himself melt into it. He knew that if he told her how he had been feeling she would hold him forever. The feeling of selfishness kept him from doing so. He might have lost a brother, but she had lost a son. Before he knew it the warmth of his mother's body moved from him, her arms finding another son.

Mrs. Weasley fell into a conversation with Percy nearly identical to the one Ron had just stumbled through with his brother. The only difference being that Mrs. Weasley knew how to continue the conversation. Ron wondered if it was a learned trait or an inherent talent. Did it come from years of being a mother or was it in her nature? Ron tended to believe the latter; Mrs. Weasley had been born to be a mother.

Ron looked at the table. Not everyone was here yet, which explained the lack of a table set up in the garden. The house had been bursting at the seams when it had just been the family of 9. Now that that family had extended to include partners and an adopted son there was no hope of them fitting into the kitchen. Fred and Angelina sat holding each others hands, smiling at one another. They seemed to forget that other's were there. Ron decided not to bother them; he saw them often enough that he didn't feel the need to say hello.

His father sat with his glasses on the tip of his nose. He was reading a Muggle book (Ron could only tell by the lack of moving picture on the front). On the side, the word Encyclopedia was written. "Hi, Dad."

Arthur looked up, his eyes brightening at once at the appearance of his youngest son. He did not hesitate to stand up and take Ron into his arms, "How are you doing, son?" 

Ron pulled from his dad, "Good, good. And you?" 

"Just wonderful! Picked myself up a copy of this Encyclopedia here! Has everything you need to know about Muggles!" Arthur lifted the book with pride.

Ron delved into a conversation with his father about muggle magic toys, which led Arthur racing to the index to look it up in his brand new book. Ron learned that the black stick was their version of a wand and laughed out loud with his dad, George, and Angelina.

Mrs. Weasley and Percy moved over the table, "Ronny, dear, could you help me get the table set up? We're going to need, oh I don't know"--Ron watched as she mentally counted the number of people who were to be in attendance--"12 chairs, but bring an extra just in case Charlie can sneak away from Romania." 

Ron nodded, smiling at his mother. He used to be annoyed when his mother would ask only him to complete tasks, but now he felt useful. 

The work was easy, save for his need to transfigure an end table into a chair, which went, considering his mark on his transfiguration O.W.L., relatively well. He stood back against the fence of the garden, looking at his handy work and enjoying his solitude. Four pops rang in succession. He knew the noise was that of apparition, but it still sent his heart into a jazz beat and he felt the surge of adrenaline that he used to find so intoxicating. 

"Heya, Ron," Harry smiled widely and bounced over to his best friend, Hermione trailing close behind. "Haven't seen you in a bit." 

Ron nodded, smiling at Harry and Hermione. They looked lovely together. They made sense more so than he and Hermione had and it stung more than he cared to admit. He missed Hermione while at the same time feeling as though he didn't deserve to be in a relationship. He could barely keep himself together with 90% of his time spent alone. What would happen when he had to share more of himself, more of his life? 

"How is the shop," Hermione asked, "Any time I'm in Diagon Alley it seems as though your number of customers has doubled!" 

"Oh yeah," Ron said, "I thought people were enjoying the shop before, but now that things have quieted down people are really letting loose. Even older people come in. It's quite nice." 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione filled each other in on all the going-ons in their lives. Hermione was working on securing funding for a program for witches and wizards mental health. Ron had never heard of the term, but had deduced what it meant. He decided not to follow the path any further. 

Harry was quickly climbing the ranks as an Auror, "I've been offered the Director's job multiple times." The way Harry said it still had an air of humbleness, but it irked Ron. That had been his dream. He had been an Auror, a damn fine one at that, but it...just hadn't panned out. "I keep telling them I'm not ready to take it. Wasn't being the Chosen One enough?" They all laughed together, which Ron was thankful for. Their laughter covered up his robotic tones. 

Bill and Fleur, Ginny and Luna, and, surprisingly enough, Charlie, streamed in. Ginny and Luna were holding hands and Ron noticed that Ginny was wearing radish earrings. They were smaller than the ones Luna occasionally sported, but recognizable enough. They looked absolutely lovely and Ron felt another pang. He went over to his sister and her partner, hugging them both. 

"You look tired, Ron," Luna's airy voice held no judgement, just observation.

"Sounds about right," Ron said, "No rest for a joke shop stocker." Luna didn't laugh but the faint smile on her lips told him that she had found his statement amusing. 

By the time Molly and Hermione had levitated all of the food and silverware to the table, George was nervously pacing, the only one of the party to be standing. The moment Molly and Hermione sat down Angelina popped up, moving into George's awaiting arm. He slung his arm around her shoulder, "Now that you lot have stopped faffing about," he cleared his throat, "Lina and I have something we'd like to share." 

Angelina's hand whipped up, right next to her face. It was her left hand and upon the second to last finger sat a sizeable rock. Out of the corner of his eye Ron saw his mother's face. Her apple cheeks nearly covered her eyes, her smile forcing them to invade occupied space. 

Ron smiled and he wondered if it was a mechanical movement or a genuine one. He wasn't sure that it mattered. George was happy and in love and absolutely beaming. That's what Ron's loudest internal voice said. But the one at the bottom, the one constantly brewing, that one said nearly the complete opposite: How can he be this happy when Fred isn't here? 

George was the only person that Ron knew of that actually, without a doubt, knew who Fred was. Sure, Ron had grown up alongside Fred, but he had never seen him in his most vulnerable states. He had only ever seen him confident, maybe even cocky. He chuckled dryly to himself thinking of Fred going to the Yule Ball with Angelina. Maybe that's why she and George were together. They both reminded the other of Fred.

When Ron was younger there was a time, he might have been twelve or so, when he had walked past Fred and George's room in order to get to the kitchen. As he walked by he heard great, heaving sobs. The kind that take your breath away, leaving you sputtering and gasping and aching. Ron knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help but stand there. He stood there and listened as George (he was sure it was George. George's voice had always been softer and more calming) attempted to soothe his brother. The moment was so private that Ron felt shame as he continued down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was never intended for his ears, yet he took it.

Ron had spent a lot of time wondering exactly what had made Fred cry like that. To him Fred was utterly invincible, unshakable. He took everything and let it roll off of his back or turned it around to make the aggressor look like an idiot. It all seemed so natural to him. The joking, the talking, the flirting. Ron had, for so many years, so desperately wanted to be Fred, or at least emulate him. Everything that Ron wanted to be, Fred was. 

Out of all of the Weasley brothers why did Fred have to be the one. 

\-- 

At the end of dinner Ron played the part. He hugged everyone he was supposed to hug, kissed everyone he was supposed to kiss. And then he apparated. He wasn't really thinking as he did it. As his feet hit the ground in front of the Hogshead he smiled. Exactly where he needed to be.

Ron wasn't sure where he would end up tonight, but he knew that this was a damn good place to start. There were very few individuals in the pub, which suited Ron just fine. He walked to the corner, where the bar met the wall, and took a seat on the stool. He ordered two whiskeys (yeah, fire was cool, but he preferred to retain his taste buds and his dinner) and quickly downed the first. 

It had been, if Ron had to guess, maybe 3 hours since he'd started drinking at the Hogshead. He'd left maybe an hour and a half ago and had been sitting at the Three Broomsticks since. Whiskey had turned to beer and Ron was quite thankful for that, as was his digestive system. As he flirted and smiled at Rosmerta he couldn't help but think of the role she had played during his 6th year. He tried very hard to focus instead on her lips and breasts, forcing away the anger he felt for a woman who had had no say in her actions that year. He knew he should forgive those who were under the Imperius Curse, but he couldn't seem to.

The pub had been relatively quiet, as quiet as pubs with a beautiful bartender could be, so when three boisterous men walked through the door, Ron noticed. Through an alcoholic haze Ron saw Neville, Seamus, and Dean. He groaned out loud which caused him to laugh and then hiccup. The hiccup had been loud enough for the three former Gryffindor's to notice and they all threw their hands up, yelling his name from the doorway.

He had to force himself not to roll his eyes.

"Hey, mates," Ron slurred, "nice to see you lot."

"Right back at ya," Seamus said, slapping him on the back, "And what are you drinking this evening?" 

"Bit o' beer," he laughed at the way it came out. He hoped Seamus wouldn't buy him a butterbeer and was relieved when he said, "Could I get four beers, mam?" 

"What brings you lads out tonight," Ron took one of the beers Rosemerta had set down and struggled once or twice before successfully bringing it to his lips. 

"Well," Neville was already blushing, which made Ron giggle, this had to be good, "Hannah and I have gotten engaged!"

Ron sputtered on his beer, playing it off as joyous laughter, "Congratulations, Neville! That's fantastic! Is she here?" 

Neville shook his head, "Of course not! We're waiting to celebrate together later.." This time his ears turned red. Ron tried to shake the mental image out, but when he wasn't successful he decided to just go with it.

"What have you been up to, Ron," Dean asked, taking the seat next to him.

"Oh you know, the usual," Ron nodded like they knew what his usual was. No one pressed him further.

"I've just gotten a new place, right in Hogsmeade," Seamus said, sitting to Ron's right. If Ron didn't know better, he'd say that Seamus had pressed his body against him more than necessary to get into his seat. Ron felt his body react and shifted in his own seat. It had been a while since he had touched another human who wasn't a member of his family, or just as good as. It was exciting and caused his mouth to go dry.

The four boys joked and drank and even smoked. Seamus had been the one to offer the cigarettes. Ron had never tried one, but that night seemed like the exact night to pick them up. He and Seamus had gone outside alone. As Seamus handed Ron the cigarette their fingers brushed again and that electric wire to his dick charged again. 

If Ron hadn't been drunk he would have blushed, but his face was already red and his confidence was much higher than usual.

The last time they smoked a cigarette together their hands brushed, but instead of letting them drop, Seamus used the brush to move into a pull, bringing Ron's body against him. Seamus was much shorter than Ron, but that wasn't a problem at all. Ron didn't need much more prodding. Without saying a word to Dean or Neville, the two left, heading down to Seamus' new apartment.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: blood, v* (mild), graphic mentions of death

October, November, and most of December flew by in a blur of drunkenness and fucking. More often than not Ron found himself at Seamus' front door, though he never remembered making the conscious decision. The man was always more than hospitable. The two rarely spoke, tearing each others clothes as they pushed themselves through the threshold, grabbing at one another as they made their way to Seamus' bedroom. 

Ron tried his absolute best not to think about it. He added his rendezvous with Seamus to his list of shame. 

When Seamus had asked Ron to go out for Dean's birthday party he tried hard not to think about that either. So he said yes, forcing his bubbling disgust to the bottom. 

It was a Wednesday of all nights. If he had still been an Auror he would have never been able to go out on a weeknight. Or any night really. It seemed as though working for Magical Law Enforcement was code for You're Always on Call, Yes, Even on the Your Days Off. Ron was sure George wouldn't mind if he took a kip (or two) in the back room. In any case, on Thursday's a young, relatively fresh graduate of Hogwarts would come in to help. She was cute, but, Ron was shocked to say, too young for him. He wondered when 18 year 0lds had become too young for him. 

Ron tried not to think too hard about what to wear. He didn't want Seamus getting the wrong idea. He just hoped that Seamus wouldn't try to kiss him or hold his hand. 

His concerns about attempts of public displays of affection from Seamus were unfounded. They spent the night swaying back and forth with Neville and Dean, singing the songs he used to hear Hagrid humming. He laughed so hard and so long that his sides hurt. He didn't even realize how much fun he was having. It was the most natural he had felt in quite some time. Maybe ever.

"Mate, you're old as fuck," Ron hung from Dean, "Twenty fucking four, what the fuck?" The last bit was spoken mostly to himself; Dean just happened to be unable to ignore the man screaming in his ear. 

Dean chuckled, "Need I remind you you're right behind me, mate?" 

Ron, 4 beers and 2 shots in, hadn't noticed how drunk Seamus had gotten. He was bouncing against patrons also sitting at the bar. The first couple of times he had done it the men had chuckled, pushing back at him. They'd all been there, or at least that was the air about them. After the third or fourth time, however, they were not as patient. One of the men stood up and twirled Seamus around, "Listen, mate, you gotta work on holding your liquor better or you're gonna have to sway elsewhere." 

Seamus laughed directly in his face, patting him on the shoulder jovially, as if the man had said some joke Seamus was in on. 

The man narrowed his eyes, "This isn't a laughing matter."

Seamus laughed again.

Ron felt his stomach begin to clench. In his mind he was already seeing the next events unfolding. He felt, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, compelled to do what Pre-War Ron would have done. A minor part of him wanted to intervene, to stand between the two men and attempt to deescalate the situation. The thought was fleeting and sputtered out like a balloon losing it's air.

Still, despite the image of the landing punch already having been played in his mind, the punch shocked him. The sound of bone meeting bone, of the cheek meeting the knuckles, was sickening. A dull crack, skin padding and proving as a muffler of sorts. Fred's body had made a similar noise, Ron was forced to remember, as the debris landed on him. Despite the knuckles no longer connecting with the cheeks, the noise repeated over and over again in Ron's mind. He screwed his eyes shut, forcing his hand over his ears, but the noise persisted. Ron was desperate. He knew the noise was internal, but he also knew he couldn't just remain passive. He had to do something to fight back.

He opened his eyes briefly and when he did he saw Seamus on the floor, blood covering his face and vomit covering his shirt. How many people had he seen in the exact same position, with the exact bodily fluids dribbling from their mouth, their noises, their heads, their eyes.

Ron knew he needed to get out of there. His stomach was churning, his mind unable to focus on anything save for the past which he seemed to forget he was no longer in. He put his hand on his wand, the wand that, usually, stayed stiffly in his pocket. He'd hoped it would provide him comfort, but, instead, it increased his pulse and the speed of his breathing. He felt as if he was running from Snatchers and Death Eaters and You-Know-Who all over again. He ran and he ran and he ran before he even realized he didn't know where he was going. There was no destination, there was no reprieve, no metaphorical light at the end of the metaphorical rainbow. Before he knew it he was in Muggle London. The throngs of people didn't stop his running. 

His chest was tightening worse than it ever had before. He was absolutely certain he was having a heart attack and, had he valued his life more, he would have contacted someone to bring him to St. Mungo's. Instead, he kept running. Maybe he'd hoped it would speed up the process, help the heart attack achieve it's purpose.

He stopped after what felt like hours and miles. He ran into an alley to vomit liquor. 

Ron's only experience with London had been when they were on the run. Every road and alley looked like the ones they had run to and from. 

He knew it was a long shot, but it was the only thing he could think of. "Accio broom." Had Ron not been so preoccupied, he would have jumped for joy. Instead he swung his leg over the broom and kicked off. His flight had a rocky start, but the further he climbed, the straighter he flew. 

At first, Ron's alcohol induced confidence led the way. In fact, he might have argued, at the peak of said confidence, that this was the best he'd ever flown. He felt free, like he had let out a breath he had unknowingly been holding. He whooped into the night, throwing his arms up. This caused his broom to suddenly lose altitude. It was the first time he felt as though he shouldn't be flying. He struggled to take control as he flew over Hogsmeade. He felt the bristles of his broom scrape across the top of a building, he believed it to be the Three Broomsticks, but he couldn't be sure. 

He laughed to himself, mostly out of fear, as he pulled the broom upward. He hadn't noticed a very tall and large tree. He struck it and felt himself fall, hitting, what felt like, every branch on the way down. By the time he reached the ground he was unconscious. 

\-- 

"Sir," the voice was stern and deep. Ron couldn't recognize it, "Sir, are you alright?" 

Ron was laying face down. Judging from the prickling cold against his skin he was on the snow covered ground. His head was throbbing. He knew it wasn't a hangover as he was still incredibly drunk, his vision tricking him into believe the world had become slanted since he was last conscious. He groaned and rolled himself onto his back, flinging his arms and legs out in an almost snow angel fashion. 

"Oh christ," the voice groaned, "Ron, what the fuck are you thinking?" 

Ron fought with his eyes to focus on the outline of an imposing man in a long, black coat and groaned out, "Fuuuuuck." 

Standing before him was none other than Senior Auror Michael Corner.

"Ron," Michael pinched the skin at the top of his nose before letting it go and looking Ron in the face, "You know I can't let this slide, right?" 

"Let what slide," had Ron been sober one might be led to believe he was attempting to avoid self incrimination. 

"Don't play daft, Ron," Michael scoffed, "We had multiple people Floo in their concerns of a 'drunken flier' and one from a wizard in Muggle London stating that his son's broom had been magicked out of his home." 

"Fuuuuuck." 

"I have to take you in, Ron."


End file.
